Halo: A Dean Winchester AU
by Hot-topical-cas
Summary: Once you've seen it, You'll never go back.
1. Chapter 1

1

SARRAH

The knot in my throat is constant. An aching thing.

Shallow breaths whisper around it, sting my chapped lips, and leave white smoke monsters in the air. It takes them nine seconds to disappear. Nine seconds for the phantoms I've created to dissolve into nothingness. How long till the one haunting my dreams does the same? The absence of an answer makes my hands shake, so I slide the lambskin gloves out of my book bag and put them on.

If only it were that easy.

Like glacial masses shoving along, ice travels my veins, chilling my skin and numbing my insides. Three weeks of this biting cold outstrips the severity of my nightmares, but I haven't suffered enough and I know it.

"Miss, isn't this your stop?" The man's voice skates atop the frozen air.

I want to answer him, but the words don't come. A single tear thaws, escapes the confines of my lashes, and races triumphantly down my cheek. It soaks into my knit scarf—an invisible trail marking its life.

"Miss?" he tries again. "We're here. We've reached Stratus."

My legs are stiff, refusing to stand. I just need a minute. I should say something at least—answer him—but the knot in my throat refuses to budge. I raise a gloved hand to wrestle it away.

"I'm sorry, dear, but the conductor is impatient today. If you don't exit the train,

you'll have to ride back to Portland with us." I turn toward the aisle and look at the poor man. He's sixty at least, with a tuft of gray hair and an oversized bow tie. The kind you only see in the movies. He, too, is wearing gloves, and it's a small comfort to know I'm not the only one chilled. His face wrinkles into a million lines, and the corners of his mouth lift.

"Of course, if you'd like to return with the train, you're more than welcome. I

could use the company." He gestures to row after row of empty seats.

"No," I murmur, standing quickly. I cannot return with this train. Not now. Not to the place where it happened. "You're right. This is my stop." I gather my bags and sink deep into my parka before stepping onto the platform. Why is everything so cold?

I wrap my scarf around my neck once more and think of Hank, a coworker of my dad's, who climbs Mount Hood every year. He's lost all the toes on his right foot to frostbite, and one year a companion fell on the south side of the peak and slid into a crevasse, sacrificed to the god of adrenaline. After losing so much, how can such a journey be worth it? The train pulls away from the station. It's empty now, but I stare after the steel snake as the heaviness of good-bye squirms inside my chest, locked away in a cage of frozen bones and tissue. Will I ever thaw enough to say the word? The parking lot is small, but as I cross it I cast a flickering gaze at the man standing by a pickup. Six foot five and burly, my father waits with a stubborn smile as I trudge toward him. Don't come, I'd said. I can take a taxi. I knew he'd be here any- way. The heavy load falls from my hands. It crunches into the frozen blacktop, and I lean against his truck, counting silently to fifty-eight before he says a word.

"I know you didn't want me to come, Sarrah, but you're not in the city anymore. There's just the one cabbie. Didn't want you standing here all night waiting for the guy." He stretches his long lumberjack arms around my shoulders awkwardly. "Plus, I couldn't wait to see you. It's been too long." He adds the last sentence very quietly, and I pretend not to hear it. The knot in my throat is a traitor, though, and explodes in a gush of air. The sobs that have bruised me from the inside out finally break free as my daddy wraps me in his arms and tucks me into his flannel coat. He lets me cry, his grip so tight I have to struggle out of it when I'm done. Still snuffling, I wipe my face on my sleeve and crawl into the truck. The scent of wood chips and spearmint gum tickles my nostrils, and I settle back, breathing it deep. Dad drops into his seat, and I have to brace my hand against the door to keep from sliding into him on the sloping bench-seat.

"Sorry," he says.

The engine revs, and we leave the parking lot behind us. From the train station it's just three miles to the house I grew up in. The distance flies by, leaving me feeling like an outsider. I can't point out a single change, but it all feels foreign. The mixture of evergreen trees and cow pastures are a bizarre juxtaposition after the city's skyscrapers and manicured parks. I don't want to be back here, but the oak tree in our lawn comes into sight and the pain ebbs a bit. The house isn't anything to get worked up over, though I've always been happy to call it home. Ranch-style, white with yellow trim, it sits nestled in a jumble of evergreens. Within, everything about the furnishings is supersized to fit my mountain of a father. We pull into the long gravel driveway, and I cringe at the ridiculous mailbox that's been added in my absence. "Where did you get that?"

"I made it," he says, proud of his handiwork. The mailbox is ghastly: a ten-gallon bucket, our last name scrawled across it, perched atop the old post. "Whatcha think?"

"What happened to the old normal mailbox?"

"I backed into it with the trailer." He chuckles, and the elastic bands around my heart ease up just a millimeter.

"Well, at least I know what to get you for Christmas." Dad parks the truck, and a small sigh escapes my lips. I hadn't planned on living here again, ever, and the sting of disappointment jabs at my gut: I did not finish what I set out to do. But I can't go back. I can't. I need this house, and I need my dad.

"Who's living in the old Miller place?" I ask, nodding at the only other house in sight—a farmhouse situated about a hundred yards to the east.

He cranes his neck to look past me. "Don't know. Somebody just moved in." Several of the windows are alive with light. The truck rattles with the sound of a stereo, and my heart slows to the rhythm of the bass line. Like a metronome, it's soothing, and I lean back against the headrest.

"Ah, heck. I'll go over there after dinner and tell 'em to turn it down."

"No. Don't. Please."

His shoulders sag, and I realize he'll do anything to make me comfortable tonight. We sit in the cab, the rattling truck and bass guitar filling the silence.

"You know, kiddo, you don't have to talk about it. You don't. You don't really need to do anything for a while." He's rehearsed this little speech, I can tell. "Just be, okay? Be here, and maybe one day you'll see it really wasn't your fault."

I choke a bit and look into his big teddy bear face. He can't know. He's my dad. He sees only what he wants to see. He'll never understand that I could have stopped it. I look out the passenger-side window, over the dead grass and the brown leaves scattered on the ground. I look out at the coming winter and the setting sun and say all I plan on saying about it.

"Tori was eighteen, Dad. My age. A little bit younger, really." My body—my skin, even—feels so heavy with the icy weight of it all. "I could have stopped the whole thing. There's no way around that, but you said it yourself. I don't have to talk about it."

I turn to face my father. He needs to know how serious I am. This subject is off-limits. Until the trial—until I'm sitting on that witness stand—there isn't another soul who needs to hear my story. I look Dad straight in the eye. Tears gather there, they run down his face and sparkle in his beard.

"Okay. We just won't talk about it," he concedes. He kisses my nose. "Some guy named Pizza Hut made us dinner, so let's get to it." He climbs out and throws a hostile look at the old Miller place. Then he grabs my bags from the bed of the truck and stomps inside.

"Pizza Hut, huh?"

I follow him into the house. His boots leave muddy prints up the porch stairs and across the linoleum floor. I used to reprimand him for stuff like that, but not today. Today, I simply ghost by. Weaving around the mud splotches, I make my way through the kitchen and into my old room. It's been vacant for two years, and still it looks the same. I pick at a loose thread on my jeans, uneasy at the lack of change. This ancient town is tight- fisted with her diversions, and it's quite possible I've had my share. The idea hurts. Like that dingy penny in the bottom of your pocket—the one that must be eighty years old. You scratch away the gummy muck and are horrified to find how new the coin is. Much newer than you ever would have guessed.

How did I get so filthy, so damaged in just a few short years?

I'd been given the chance of a lifetime, and now, two years later, my own inaction had ruined not only my dreams but the life of someone I'd loved. Broken dreams I can handle, but I'd give anything to go back and make things right for her.

That isn't possible, of course. Some things you have to do right the first time. If the past three weeks have taught me anything, it's that.

You don't always get a second chance.

The doorbell rings, mercifully pulling me from thoughts that can only lead to tears.

"Sarrah! Company."

An unnoticed, quiet transition back home was too grand a thing to hope for. I realize this only now as I reenter the kitchen, followed by several of my old friends. It's a diverse group I've collected through the years: there's the softball player, the cheerleader, my first lab partner, a girl I've known since Girl Scouts, and two dancers from Miss Macy's studio on Main.

I'm the outgoing one. The ballerina, the model. My place has always been the clubhouse. The home without a nagging mother. Without chores to do. Without pestering siblings. We've grown up together, all of us. Their mothers made me cookies and hemmed my dance costumes. Their fathers kept Dad company while I was away at summer camp. These girls and their families will always be the players on the stage of my childhood, and I can tell by their optimistic, chipper faces that they assume we can pick up where we left off.

They're wrong. Nothing will ever be the same.

I try to smile and nod at the right times, but I'm cold and slow. Eventually their smiles fade. They ask a few questions about the train ride home, about my school in the city. No one approaches the tie-dyed elephant in the room, but their eyes avoid mine, and I know they're scrutinizing the poor beast in any case. Mostly they fidget uncomfortably. After half an hour the entire huddle smiles politely, mutters garbled apologies, and leaves one after the other. Only Kaylee, my childhood sidekick, stays long enough to grab a slice of pizza and attempt to wring me from my melancholy.

"Sarrah, you've got to let this go," she says, picking the pepperoni off her pizza. I wonder if this attempt at vegetarianism will last longer than her emo phase.

"If it's all right with you, Kay, I'd rather not talk about it," I say from across the kitchen.

"I know, but one day you will, and I'll be here, okay? I'll be right here." She stares at her pizza as she speaks, and for that I'm grateful. "This pizza's great. I mean, I know I'm a vegetarian, but if I pick it off like this"—she waves a pepperoni at me— "the cheese still tastes like meat." She flashes her teeth at me, marinara coating her braces.

A giggle hiding somewhere inside my gut wriggles its way north and surprises both of us.

"Well, you're not spewing soda out your nose yet, but it's better than the face you had when I got here. You'll be at school tomorrow?"

"Yes, of course. What else is there to do around here?"

"I heard that." Dad's recliner moans, and a second later he lumbers into the kitchen. He's been pretending to watch some Japanese reality show and now leans heavily on the island, studying my face. "You don't have to jump back into things so fast, kiddo. Thanksgiving break's just ending. Take a week for yourself. Adjust."

"It's. Stratus."

"Sarrah . . ."

"The bucket outside doubling as a mailbox—that's the only thing that's changed, Dad." I tweak his nose, trying to cram my lively past-self into the gesture.

He takes my hand and folds it into his. "But you've changed, baby. You've had to."

I tug my fingers free and turn away. "School is fine."

Actually, I dread it. All those faces staring at me. Knowing. All the questions stirring behind sympathetic expressions. Yes, I dread it. Absolutely. Suddenly the pizza seems like an awful idea, and I'm sick to my stomach.

"Sarrah? You're white as a sheet. Maybe you should listen to your dad."

"I just need to lie down. I'll see you tomorrow, Kay." I run from the room, bleat-

ing the last few words as I go.

I make it to the bathroom before I start throwing up, but only just. Dad brings me a glass of water and a rag. I send him to bed and tell him not to worry—it's probably just the greasy pizza. He isn't convinced, I'm sure, but he understands I'd rather be alone in my misery, and he's kind enough to give me that.

The rest of the night passes—uneasily, but it passes. I don't sleep much, and when I wake, my hands are shaking violently. My dreams scare me now. Not because they're always about Tori, but because I'm always afraid they will be. Fear is the real spook haunting my dreams. When I'm awake, though, it isn't fear that makes me shake. It's guilt. Frigid and ever present. The sound of tire chewing gravel tells me Dad's truck is backing down the drive- way. I yank the cord on my blinds. They fly up and away, and I rub my hands together as the sky brightens moderately behind a canopy of gray clouds. My sheets and blankets have balled up and settled in a wad on my stomach. I kick them off and step into the shower, cranking the knob hard to the left—so hard the pipes squeal in protest. Hot water, sputtering and steamy, washes over my skin. Still, I wash quickly.

How it can scald my flesh and still leave me chilled, I have no idea, but the past twenty-three days have brought one disappointing shower after the next. It's too early to head to school, so I start a load of laundry for Dad. I unload the dishwasher and unpack quickly, cramming away shirts and pants before I'm forced to remember why I bought them or who I bought them with. Wrapped in a blanket, I wander through the empty house. It's pretty clean, but I suspect Dad has paid someone to do that. There are no cobwebs on the white walls, the flat-screen TV is void of dust, the thick brown carpet has been vacu- umed, the blue recliner and sectional smell like Febreze. An afghan is folded neatly and draped over my favorite reading chair. A collection of books adorns the leather ottoman, and the bathroom has a new addition: a plug-in air freshener. Yeah, he's paying someone.

Pictures of my dead mother doing things I have no recollection of litter the walls and tables: holding my pudgy toddler hand as we walk through a park, wearing a flowery bathing suit and splashing in the surf, kissing my father under the mistle- toe. I stop at a picture by the front door. It's a family portrait taken outside Miss Macy's dance studio on the afternoon of my first recital. Dad looks nearly unchanged: ruddy complexion, mussed beard and hair, flannel shirt. I think he was happier then.

In the photograph Mom's holding me tight. My legs, in white tights, wrap around her waist. The tiny bun on top of my head is pulling loose, but there's no mistaking the resemblance to my mother. Even at three years old I favor her. Blue eyes, red lips, fair skin. Her golden-blond hair sits in waves upon her shoulders in a way I've never been able to replicate. Instead, mine hangs long and straight. Still, I have her soft round cheeks and small chin. I run a finger over her face. I don't remember her at all. Dressing as warmly as possible, I pull on my parka and gloves over everything else. I step onto the porch and fumble in my bag for the car keys I haven't needed in two years.

We live on a fairly empty stretch of road. The view from our porch shows a spat- tering of trees, the highway, and then acres and acres of abandoned farmland. The old Miller place sits to the east, and a mile or so beyond is the Stratus cemetery. There's also a road leading back to the interstate. The rest of the town sits to the west. With an anxious sigh I climb into my hand-me-down Volkswagen Beetle. She's a 1967, black with a rack on top, and we call her Slugger. Slugger was Mom's, so Dad's always taken good care of her, but she's not allowed out of town. Too old, Dad says. Too slow, I say. Either way, Slugger's a piece of Mom, and I love her.

Stratus High isn't far: just a short drive up the highway and across Main Street. Almost everything in Stratus involves a drive across Main. When you see the neon grape jelly jar towering above, you know you've arrived. Jelly's, the closest thing Stratus has to a café. Across the street is the small theatre. An old-fashioned clock sits out front, surrounded by metal benches. We call this the town square. A quick glance at the clock tells me I've still not reacclimated to small-town life. Everything here starts so much later than in Portland. I'm twenty-five minutes early. The stoplight marking the center of Main turns red, and I consider flipping a U- turn. A cup of something hot from Jelly's doesn't sound half bad and would kill some time. But there on the corner, just past the stoplight, is Miss Macy's. The dance studio I all but lived in until two years ago. I danced there. I taught. I sweated. It'd be nice to sweat again.

The windows are dark, but I've still got my key. It rattles against my steering column with a handful of others. By the time the light turns green, I've decided. Slugger putts through the intersection, and I park in front of the studio. My hands are safe inside my gloves, but they tremble. It's been a long time since I danced just for myself. The glass door is clean. I imagine the teacher who closed last night sprayed all the tiny fingerprints away. I unlock it and step inside. Leaning against the door, I breathe deep, expecting familiarity, but it smells different than I remember. New paint maybe? The reception area is small and mostly unchanged. A small wooden desk, blue binders stacked on one corner, a white vase with plastic roses on the other. Eight folding chairs line the front window and the adjoining wall in a tidy L-shape. Pictures of students, past and present, fill the room, on shelves and in cases. Younger, warmer versions of myself smile back from many of them. It's like walking into a scrapbook of my life. I step through the connecting doorway and into the studio. There's just the one. The wintry daylight outside does little to brighten the room as it trickles through the wall of windows looking out onto the street. I flip the switch to my right, and the studio fills with warm, yellow brightness. It spills across the wood floors and reflects off the mirror on the far wall.

Beyond the window, beyond my car parked at the curb and across the street, three old men sit outside a doughnut shop. They're bundled in flannels, jackets, and scarves—coffee mugs fogging the air, but still they sit. Same thing they were doing when I left two years ago. One of them, a thin stick of a man wearing an aviator cap—Bob, I think—catches me staring and waves. I wave back, but he's already turned back to his friends. I shake my head and crouch at the CD player sitting just inside the door. Against it leans a white CD sleeve. Purple writing loops across the front.

SARRAH, it says. WELCOME HOME.

I run a gloved finger over Miss Macy's winding script and am ashamed of myself. I could have written. I could have called. But, happy to move on, I soaked up life in the city and pushed Stratus and the ever-constant Miss Macy to the back of my mind. Still, she knew I'd find my way here, and she left this for me. A CD she probably mixed herself.

My chest tightens as I insert the disk into the slot and push Play. I don't bother removing my gloves or jacket. I'll just be a minute. My feet find the center of the floor as the music begins. The selection is very Miss Macy. Floaty. Flowery even. I don't recognize it. Sounds like a movie soundtrack. Jane Austen or something. The mirror's in front of me, but I close my eyes. I know what I'll see there. A skinny girl disguised as a marshmallow. Parka, gloves, hat, boots.

Still, I dance.

And I cry. The music pulls my arms out and up, pushes me onto my toes and into myself. For three or four minutes I'm lost. Just the music. Just me. I move across the floor, my boots squeaking, my jacket swishing. I pause just long enough to turn the music up, tune out my mountain girl apparel. And then I rise on my toes and begin again. The music fades away, and my body settles into first position. I rest, waiting for the next song. When it begins I snort. Good thing I'm alone. The song is from my fifth-grade dance recital. A ridiculous ditty about jungle animals. The thumping drums and twanging guitars couldn't be more different from the gentle piano and flute duet of the first number.

But I can't help it. My feet tap to the rhythm. The music grows louder, and I stomp. My back curves out and in, out and in. My arms swing over my head one after the other, and when the animal noises start, I beat my chest like a gorilla, just like I did when I was eleven. I tip my head back and howl.

And then I catch my reflection in the mirror. I'm not the only one howling. Outside, standing just inches from the glass, leaning against a blue mailbox, is a boy.

A boy I've never seen before.

And he's laughing. At me.

I lurch and turn toward the window, my hair flying. The boy jerks upright. Caught staring and he knows it. His bright hazel eyes are what catch my attention first— green with a russet flame bleeding from the center. I take a step toward the glass. Brilliant hazel eyes trimmed with thick black lashes—the kind women buy and glue to their eyelids.

His brows are dark, too dark for the sandy hair falling around his face. And there's something very . . . tan about him. He looks out of place standing on the sidewalk in our frozen town, but I can't imagine him in the city either. Not part of the eclectic sect I hung with: ambitious dancers, plastic models, tragic actors, cutthroat talent agents. I can't imagine an appropriate setting for him. Somewhere tropical maybe. Somewhere hot. He's wearing a long-sleeved T-shirt advertising some band I've never heard of, distressed jeans, and Chucks—an outfit so incredibly understated that every bit of my attention returns to his face. He just looks warm. I shove my hair over my shoulder and smooth my parka. Blood rushes to my face and neck. I'm mortified, but I stand really, really still. That's what you're supposed to do to avoid a bear attack, right?

Does it work with boys?

Apparently not. His hands come up in the universal gesture for Whoops, and his full-body guffaw is replaced by a pair of penitent puppy-dog eyes. But it seems he can't stifle his amusement for long. His face cracks, and a smile slips through. At least he has the decency to cover his mouth.

Then his hands fall away to reveal a grin. A stupid, stupid grin. He steps toward the window and presses a hand to it. The glass fogs over immediately, and his mouth opens like he's got something to say. I cock my head, waiting.

Apology? Hello!

But his mouth closes, and he pulls his hand away. With his index finger he carves a single word into the misty fog his hand left behind: Sorry. It's backward, of course.

I can think of no adequate response, but for some reason my hands land on my hips. He turns away, that stupid grin still smeared across his face. He disappears beyond the frame of the window, leaving me huffing and puffing. Out of breath, embarrassed, and, if I'm honest, warmer than I've been in forever. Across the street the old guys wave their coffee cups at me. Bob stands and claps. His friend whistles—a piercing sound I can hear even inside the studio. It seems they've enjoyed the show as well. I'd curtsy, but my jungle animal routine sucked all the snark out of me.

I creep to the window and press my face against it. It's cold, but the boy is gone. The town square juts out from the sidewalk like an octagon-shaped peninsula, and the clock catches my attention again. I groan and zip my jacket.

Now that I've humiliated myself on Main Street, school should be a breeze.


	2. Chapter 2

Stratus High looks cold. It's always looked this way, I guess, but after my morning . . . workout, I was hoping for something balmy. At least temperate. Metal roofs top the white, weather-resistant structures: a gymnasium, two class- room buildings, and a multipurpose room. Against the white sky and the white, functional buildings, evergreens grow in abundance: holly, pine, cypress.

My first class is advanced calculus, or so says the schedule I've been handed by a well-informed, excessively sympathetic secretary whose name I can't remember. The calculus teacher, however, is new and apparently uninformed. I nearly lose it when he introduces me to the rest of the class. My hands shake so fiercely I have to shove them into my pockets to keep them from becoming a point of attention. I'm sick again but force myself to swallow it down. As fast as humanly possible I take my seat at the back of the room and lay my head down on the desk. It's pathetic but necessary.

I'm dizzy. Very dizzy.

Two-thirds of the kids in this classroom have passed through each grade with me, and every single one of them saw the news story three weeks ago. A fact utterly apparent by the pained looks on their faces. After my impromptu dance performance this morning, I've had quite enough attention. There's no need to point more of it my way. Not when I'm convinced there's some cosmic spotlight trained on my biggest failure.

I tell myself to keep breathing, to relax. Focusing on the teacher's voice helps. Monotone and austere—I wonder how many kids will be asleep by the time the class is over. I keep my eyes shut as he begins the lesson, reviewing material I can't make myself focus on or care about. Half the period passes before anything he says registers, and then his drab little voice surprises me. "Ah," he says, absent inflection. "It appears you're not the only new student, Sarrah. Everyone, meet Dean. Dean, everyone." Without lifting my head, without looking, I know who it is, and I burrow deeper into my parka. Two new students at Stratus High in one day?

It has to be him.

"There are a few open seats in the back near Miss Matthews. Take your pick." Mr. Calculus gestures haphazardly, and I duck into my parka. The entire class turns in my direction, but they're not looking at me. Not this time. They all seem captivated by the boy sliding into the seat next to mine. An entire row—all girls— cranes around to get a better look, and a couple jersey-clad football players nudge one another as they size up the new kid. The teacher trudges on, but the atmosphere in the room feels downright awkward. Don't get me wrong, I'm glad the class's attention is no longer focused on me, but I feel bad for the guy. On principle, I refuse to join the stalkarazzi as they giggle and bat their eyes, but their worship has me curious. Did I miss something spectacular about the kid this morning? Does he sparkle in the sunlight? Does he have fangs? What? The teacher raps his ruler against the blackboard to garner attention, and I roll my head sideways to get a better look. Yeah. It's him. The boy with the front-row seat to this morning's jungle-girl routine. In the confines of the classroom, though, he looks even more out of place than he did on the sidewalk. His skin looks lighter, his shoulders broader, and his eyes have an intensity to them—both dark and light at the same time. For the first time in nearly a month, my hands stop shaking. I pull my gloves off a finger at a time and do my best not to stare at the stranger who so openly stared at me this morning. Here in the classroom his demeanor is more formal, more stoic. He keeps his face on the blackboard until the lesson is over. He ignores the girls flipping their hair and sneaking glances at him from the front row. He ignores the posturing football players. And he ignores me.

The bell rings, catching me unprepared. Most everyone is packed up already, but I'm still staring at an open calculus book. The new kid, Dean, slides from his seat and reties his shoe. "That was cool this morning. The dancing." His voice has a boyish scratch to it. I can't help but think he's been laughing too much. He snatches my glove from the floor and places it on the desk in front of me. "You're good." I close my book. "You—yeah." There were words there. I swear there were.

He chews his lip. Just like he did outside the studio. "It's rude to stare," I blurt. "Your mom told you that, right?"

His face changes. It's sadder somehow. "I've heard it around. And I didn't mean to stare. Right place, right time, I guess." He stands and throws his bag over his shoulder. "You've got skills." He's mocking me, I'm sure of it. I mean, jungle dance doesn't exactly scream "mad skills." I've got a comeback. Something about monkeys and boys. It's just . . . stuck. Frozen on the tip of my tongue. With a slight tilting of his head he walks out the door, and I'm left chewing on the icicle of another thing unsaid. Learning to speak again is now priority one.

It's a minute before I realize my hands are shaking. So severely this time it takes a good thirty seconds to pull my gloves back in place. If I could stay embarrassed all day, I might just thaw. But this biting cold is well deserved, so I blink away the tear offering me its salty consolation. I flip up my hood—a shield against prying eyes—and make my way across the rime-freckled quad. I don't think about the new kid. I don't.

The rest of my classes are uneventful: literature, government, French. Advanced photography is the only class I've actually chosen, and my steps fall faster as I make my way there. It's been forever since I've been in an actual darkroom. Austen—my school in the city—doesn't offer a traditional photography class. In- stead they offer digital imaging, which focuses primarily on photo manipulation using computer software. No need for film. No need for a darkroom. Just digital cameras and a Mac lab. And while I enjoyed that class as well, there's just something about manually processing and developing film that's fully immersive. You touch it and see it. You smell it, for goodness' sake. There's an ebb and flow—a rhythm. Like dance, I guess. Maybe that's why I like it so much. Admittedly, it's a dying art form. And while a jump into the modern world is exactly what our little town needs, I'm glad I'll be long gone before traditional photography vanishes from Stratus High. I duck into the darkroom, catching a wink from the photo teacher as I go. Mr. Burns is an eccentric old man and does not run a formal classroom setting. Once a week he lectures on a technique or piece of equipment, and on Tuesdays he holds a class-wide critique. Everyone submits a photo and everyone has a vote. There are award ribbons and everything. During the rest of the week, we're free to work on whatever projects we have going. The darkroom is small, and though there are only two other students in the room with me, it feels crowded. This doesn't help the claustrophobic tendencies I've developed, but John Mayer croons from the radio in the corner and it's warmer than the outer classroom. I drop my stuff at the corner station and set to work developing the film in my camera bag. Without a darkroom at my disposal, I've been hoarding it. Half a dozen rolls tumble out when I unzip the front flap, but I don't mind. It gives me something to focus on. The mindless repetition is cathartic. Even my numb fingers cooperate while crammed inside the black bag. I slam the small container on its end to release the filmstrip and wrap it around the reel carefully to avoid leaving fingerprints. My fin- gers move quickly as I come up with a plan for the next couple days. Today the fo- cus will be getting all this film developed and hung to dry. Since I've just returned, I'll bow out of the critique tomorrow and sort through the strips, make contact sheets, and see if I have anything here to work with. I place the reel in the canister and unzip the bag while my thoughts wander. I think about the general solitude I've been granted by the other students. By now, the last period of the day, I'm pretty much ignored. My chill must be contagious, because the girl next to me in government actually shivered when she brushed my arm. I'm glad this room is dark. If my hands do shake, I don't have to try too hard to hide them. But Mr. Burns must have turned the heater on, because for the third time today, I'm warm. Relieved to be free of the chill, I slide out of my sweater. I feel a little more normal this way: Without the gloves, without the parka and the sweater. Just a long-sleeved white T-shirt over faded blue jeans. My thoughts continue to wander. With some effort I pull them away from three weeks ago, away from the city. There are other things to think about. Other people. People from here. People with no connection at all to that place. People like Kaylee. It's strange I don't have a single class with her. I want that fact to disappoint me, but I don't feel much about it at all.

And there's the new kid. Dean. Where did he come from, anyway? Did the teacher say?

I turn to grab the developing solution from the table behind me. Alone with my thoughts, I slam into someone, the metal canister in my hand smacking the person hard in the stomach. "Oh, I'm . . ." I am sorry, and I should tell him so. But I don't. I'm distracted by the hand holding my wrist.

It belongs to Dean. My stalker, apparently.

"Hey," he says. He steadies both my wrist and the canister against his chest. His heart pounds evenly against my hand, and mine speeds up. It seems I'm destined to make a fool of myself in front of this guy. "I didn't realize we had this class together," he says. "I . . . me either," I stutter. "I didn't know either." He smiles. Up close it's crooked, mischievous, and I think of that Pink song, the one about the pills and the morphine. I think how dangerous attraction is. How dangerous it was for her.

I take a step back and then realize he's still holding my wrist. I try to gather my thoughts and put together a coherent sentence, but nothing occurs to me.

The door opens behind Dean, and Mr. Burns comes in. "Dean, can I bother you for a second? I need some help bringing in the new enlarger."

"Sure, Mr. Burns." His eyes are still on my face, that lopsided grin mocking me, and it's a second or two before he releases my wrist and follows the teacher from the room.

"Elle, could you hold the inner door open for us? Grace has the door out here."

Between the darkroom and the classroom is a short hallway with heavy doors at each end. This area has no light at all and serves as a transition space protecting the darkroom from the white light of the classroom.

"Of course . . ." I run the canister back to my workstation and hurry back through the door to wait for them. I arrive just as Dean and Mr. Burns come through the first door. The bright light from the classroom beyond allows me to see them scooting past Grace, a redhead I've known since kindergarten. She's holding the classroom door open, and as Dean passes her, she fakes a swoon only I can see. Grace is being friendly. I should wink and swoon back, and we can giggle like girlfriends. But for some reason her attraction to Dean irritates me.

Mr. Burns and Dean stop.

"Hey again," Dean says.

He's standing so close.

I clear my throat.

"Okay, Grace. We're through. Go ahead and close that door," Mr. Burns says. "Have fun, Sarrah."

Her door shuts, and we're engulfed in darkness. It's for the briefest of moments, but I'm thankful Mr. Burns is here. I don't trust myself alone with this stranger. Who knows what I'll say. What I'll do.

Fumbling, I open the darkroom door, and they squeeze past me, Dean first, carrying his side of the enlarger with ease, and then tiny Mr. Burns, huffing with the strain of it. They place the enlarger in its new home, secure some cords, and plug things in. Mr. Burns thanks Dean and scoots out the door, cursing quietly under his breath and rubbing his shoulder. The two other students using the darkroom crack up at something I've missed and file past me into the classroom. We're alone now: Dean and I. And that doesn't bode well for me. I could do an Irish jig or maybe run into him again? Decisions. But Dean sets up on the opposite side of the room, his head hunched over the enlarger, his back to me. Which is just fine. Preferable, actually. I have a ton of film to develop, and I can do that all the way over here. On this side of the room.

When Grace bounces through the door, my hands are trapped in the black bag, but I force a smile in her direction. She winks back at me and hops up on the counter next to Dean, all energy and charm.

"Hey," he says, looking up. "It's Faith, right?"

"Grace. Grace Middleton, silly. We have Spanish together."

Dean straightens up. "That's right."

Grace giggles and leans into him, brushing his bicep with her plastic fingernails. Oh gag. I turn back to my station. Grace has always been a flirt. It's never bothered me before, and there's no reason it should bother me now. Especially since she's keeping the stalker occupied. Still, she goes on and on, being all cute, chatting him up. Her verbal pawing fills the room, and I stare longingly at the radio in the corner. As soon as my hands are free of the bag, I tromp over to it and crank the volume up. Grace casts me a disparaging look, but I ignore her and melt into my work. No one needs to listen to this.


End file.
